


A Study in a Reddish Sort of Color

by DetectiveInspector_Caracal



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, Ship Series - Anne McCaffrey
Genre: ACD Canon References, ACD Stories Exist In-Universe, Alternate Universe - Brainships, Asexual Sherlock Holmes, Crossover, Gen, POV John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock Holmes Is A Space Ship, Shiplock Holmes, Things Get A Little Meta
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-03
Updated: 2017-03-11
Packaged: 2018-03-21 03:36:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3675915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DetectiveInspector_Caracal/pseuds/DetectiveInspector_Caracal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is the "brawn" half of a B&B team... or was. All he wants is to be assigned a new partner - even as abrasive and temperamental a brainship as Sherlock - and get back to work. But Sherlock winds up being more of a handful than John expected.</p><p>And then there's a suspicious death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Introduction, of sorts

It was not an auspicious first meeting, even by the most charitable reckoning. I had lost my previous assignment as brawn for another ship – the details of which are irrelevant to this story, but had travelled rapidly through the BB network and made it difficult for me to find a new ship... to put it mildly. The number of interviews I'd had that led to nothing since I'd returned was embarassing enough I tried not to think of it.

On that day, I had yet another interview appointment with XS-983 – named, of all the ironies in life, _Sherlock_. Newly graduated and freshly installed into his ship, there was little to know about him. The operator who had notified me of the interview had sounded sympathetic, but it was difficult to know if that was due to this Sherlock's character, my own situation, or some combination of the two.

Regardless, there I was, at the base of the ship, my hopes low and my expectations lower still. I was braced for disappointment (though I was doing my best to appear optimistic, to avoid shooting myself in the foot and being sent off without even a consideration) when the lift door slid open, before I even had raised my hand to knock. That was a promising start, I felt, and I stepped into the lift. I focused on staying positive as it swiftly and smoothly ascended – or at the very least appearing to stay positive, and stepped forward as the lift came to a halt.

I stopped mid-step in surprise as the doors slid open to a sudden blast of sound. Music – a symphony of some sort, it sounded like, though I wasn't very familiar with the style or genre and beyond that, didn't even attempt to identify it. It was an unconventional way to begin an interview, but I wasn't about to complain and the music, while loud, was not unpleasant.

As I stepped out of the lift, the music abruptly cut off and was replaced by a dry, sarcastic sort of voice (which I was certain he must have deliberately cultivated, much as many shellpersons cultivate a flat, expressionless voice – but that is a topic for another time).

"I have sent my acceptance on to my supervisor," he said, "since I am sure you've no objections to being my partner. Oh, don't bother facing the column, I don't care about that nonsense."

I was quite taken aback by the abruptness of this announcement, as well as the forwardness of his attitude, and my planned introduction flew out of my mind with barely a trace. Instead, I grasped vainly for some sort of reply, since he was evidently expecting one.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Well you _don't_ have any objections, do you?"

"I-- well, no?" I hadn't been certain that his "acceptance" was about my being his brawn when he'd first said it, and to be perfectly blunt I wasn't any more certain at that point either. It was so completely outside of my expectations and experience with other ships that I had very little context to work with, and I began to wonder if this supposed interview was in fact some sort of prank. "But don't you have any questions?"

"No. What for?"

"The purpose is usually to find out more about each other," I explained, though I was fairly certain he knew all of it already. If it was a joke, I thought, I might as well play along. "Making sure we'd work well together and things like that."

"I have all your official records already." The console screens across the main cabin blinked on and a series of documents flashed across them, too quickly for me to do more than identify them as primarily text. "Beyond that, I am also aware of the tragically embarassing end to your previous assignment which has marked you as a black sheep – unofficially, of course – and left you wallowing off duty as an unwanted brawn as brain after ship turns you down in favor of a fresh graduate. While you harbor doubts that this was a poor choice of career path, they are not enough to overcome the obstacles you faced towards a medical degree. So trapped into a life as a ship's brawn, you are willing – eager, even – to accept the first offer you get.

"Additionally, you were pleasantly surprised by my choice of music, despite the unusual volume, indicating a high probability of compatible tastes and a near guarantee that they are not _in_ compatible. Your brief hesitation before continuing aboard as though nothing unusual was happening shows you have a steady temperament and good discipline – observations consistent with your records and of excellent value in a brawn. You were going to request permission to board, which shows good manners – further supported by your intent to greet me by facing the central column.

"There is little more I could learn from additional questions."

I was not particularly familiar with the old detective stories about another Sherlock, but I knew enough to suspect that _this_ Sherlock was at least attempting to mimick his abilities. With almost unsettling success, though much of what he concluded could be guessed at after reading my records. (It was not until much later that I mentioned this to him, at which he scoffingly informed me that he "never guesses".)

"I see," was my final response, after some perplexed consideration. "Well then, Sherl--"

"Holmes," he interrupted. "I would prefer you called me Holmes."

"Your name isn't _really_ Sherlock Holmes?" The question slipped out before I could catch it and I mentally kicked myself. Not all shellpersons minded their full birth identity being known, but it was still a serious breach of etiquette at the very least. Being accepted to crew a ship again only to be sent off due to a slip of the tongue would make my already embarassing situation beyond tolerable.

"It hardly matters." Sherlock tutted dismissively; to my relief, he was either oblivious to the potential offense or simply chose to ignore it. "You may think of it as a nickname."

"All right, fair enough." I briefly considered sitting down, but it didn't seem entirely appropriate for some reason so I remained standing. "You seem to know a lot about me; what about you?"

"Ah yes, of course," he said. "You wish to know more about your new partner – a reasonable request. I enjoy music, chess, and _meaningful_ mental exercise - the last of which is nearly impossible for the low-ranking Courier Services work my intellect is being utterly wasted on. I am prone to odd hours of activity. I don't care about your personal habits or the decor of the cabins; do as you like. Speaking of which, I have just received our first assignment and I believe they are eager to be rid of me, so it would be wise of you to go pack your belongings."

The lift door had never closed behind me, but he slid it back and forth a few inches anyway for emphasis. Still hardly believing that I'd actually gotten another job, after all this time, I nodded vaguely towards the column. "Thank you, ah, Holmes."

"I wouldn't thank me quite yet, Watson," he replied in the same dry tone. His use of my last name didn't surprise me, not after that request to be called Holmes. "You'd better hurry."

"Right. Of course." I quickly stepped into the lift. It would take a little time for me to pack for travel; enough to think things over, at least, for which I was grateful.

I had a lot to think about, after all. The official notification of my new position and to report to the ship for JS-983's first assignment arrived before I'd even left the landing field, sweeping away my lingering doubts that the entire thing had been a strange joke. Even so, Sherlock – or Holmes, as I reminded myself to call him – was... unusual, to put it mildly. I would call him eccentric, though if I were being less polite I could think of several other words that would fit equally well. The bit with the music being a sort of test, the analytical monologue, the general air of arrogance...

I closed up my suitcase with a decisive click and nodded to myself. My new partner had clearly read those stories; I was determined to do the same as soon as I had opportunity. Maybe _then_ I would be able to have some idea of what to expect from him.


	2. A Difference of Taste?

When I returned to the ship with my sparse but sufficient luggage, I found that the cargo we were assigned to transport had been nearly all loaded – quick work for such short notice. Particularly since I had been given no indication from the assignment that it was of any special priority. The last remark Sherlock had made before I had left earlier came back to mind; perhaps they _were_ eager to be rid of him. If I hadn't already been wondering what sort of partnership I'd gotten myself into, that alone would have started my feeling suspicious. As it was, I simply added it to the growing list of oddities.

The cargo was all loaded and secured by the time I had settled my belongings into my cabin, and within minutes we were cleared for takeoff, which went smoothly and quietly. Very quietly, in fact; Sherlock seemed disinclined towards conversation in general. Aside from the standard launch procedure and a brief warning before we went into hyperdrive, he hadn't spoken a word.

The sudden unsociable turn of my new partner, while perhaps less than ideal, _did_ leave me with ample time to read up on the fictional character of Sherlock Holmes. Aside from his curt responses to direct queries, I was left entirely up to my own devices. I had grown accustomed to occupying myself while recuperating from the... incident, however, so his sudden taciturn behavior didn't trouble me too greatly – especially as I had my own personal research to do.

I had managed to track down the origins of the character to a series of novels by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle – and upon reading one, was both pleased and annoyed at the _Doctor_ Watson who supposedly chronicled their stories. I was pleased to note that at least one John Watson had been a doctor, fictional or otherwise, but at the same time it was frustrating to be reminded of my own difficulties.

It was several days into the trip before Sherlock finally initiated conversation over breakfast.

"They're all a lot of useless drivel," he said, entirely without preamble.

I looked up at the nearest camera in surprise, my mug of coffee paused halfway to my lips. "I'm sorry?"

"The stories," he said impatiently. "Those pitifully shallow amateur detective stories you've been reading."

"Really?" I finally took a sip of coffee before setting the mug back down and turning my attention to the rarity of conversation. "I think they're very interesting. The character of Sher--"

"He tries to convey a character of keen intellect and observation," Holmes interrupted, sounding remarkably annoyed, "but he has no grasp of such a character, _or_ of the true analytical methods such an intellect would employ. The entire thing is portrayed as a mere parlor trick, sensationalized by needless drama, leaving his detective resembling nothing more than a stage magician."

I absorbed this sudden and unexpected tirade with puzzlement. I had assumed up until then that Holmes – the real Sherlock, that is – had been a fan or at least enthusiast of the character and had modelled his behavior after him. That sudden evidence of distaste, however, threw all my assumptions into disarray.

"By 'he'," I asked carefully, "do you mean Sir Arthur Conan Doyle?"

"Isn't that obvious? Oh, he tries to cast it as the colorful rendition by the faithful chronicler of Watson, but the few purportedly written by Holmes himself are no better. And the entire series is _riddled_ with inconsistencies." He tutted in annoyance. "Useless drivel, as I said."

"What about the stories written by other people?" I thought perhaps he had fixed on some other derived work. My initial research had turned up countless rewrites, adaptations and parodies in every media imaginable; surely _one_ must have suited him and led to this persona?

"No better," he said. "Not a single educational example among them. Pure overdramatized dross."

"Then why do you want me to call you Holmes, if you hate him so much?" My confusion had finally given way in the face of his arguments to exasperation.

"I have nothing against the unfortunate Mr. Holmes," he retorted sharply. "My objections lie _entirely_ with the heinous mistreatment of his character, and I intend to correct such misconceptions by example. Thus, the form of address."

"... Misconceptions." I was beginning to form an idea of my partner's personality, and it was less than comforting. Arrogance I had guessed, though not with such a specific focus... and that focus, I was beginning to strongly suspect, bordered on an obsession. I would have felt it was more than just bordering, but Psych would never have given an obsessive shellperson control of a ship. At least not if they _knew_. "I see."

"You think it some sort of obsession." His voice had resumed its typical dry tone. "I assure you, it is not. If _you_ were given the name Sherlock and the gift of unparalleled analytical intelligence-- ah, but no. You are John Watson and you wish to be a doctor, which has led to a similar, but distinct sort of resentment."

"I don't-- how _do_ you do that?"

"It's quite simple," he replied, affecting a tone of boredom. "Your gestures and expressions are so open and straightforward as to make reading them a laughable effort. You are not the first person to draw such a conclusion – nor, I imagine, will you be the last. Lastly, watching you read through Doyle's work the past few cycles has been most insightful."

I couldn't decide whether to feel relieved he hadn't simply been ignoring me or annoyed that he had _acted_ as though he were ignoring me and, after a moment of consideration, settled on both.

"I'm glad you think so," I replied, my own tone of voice nearly as dry as his own. "Do you plan on insightfully watching me in silence for the rest of the trip, or will I be able to enjoy more of these delightful conversations?"

"That all depends," said he, "on whether I have anything better to do."

For the second time since I'd walked into his lift doors, I had the feeling Sherlock was laughing at me – a feeling that would become all too common in the months to follow.


	3. An Unexpected Detour

Our one-sided argument of sorts on the qualities of detective fiction appeared to signal the end of Sherlock's taciturn mood. As I quickly began to realize, my partner's character held little that could be termed "moderation"; the silence was replaced by near-constant conversation -though the word _conversation_ is perhaps generous, as they consisted about ninety percent him talking and myself listening.

I would be doing him an injustice to complain, however, as it was an easy pattern to fall into. My hesitant suspicion of some sort of monomania was soon laid to rest as he proved himself to be knowledgable - and often just as highly opinionated - on a far wider range of topics than his namesake. I was given impromptu lectures on the common pitfalls of terraforming uninhabitable planets, the psychological similarities and differences of living on frontier mining stations to being a first-drop colonist, the ideology behind the second Neo-Romantic movement, and others that have escaped my memory.

To my surprise, though I didn't always agree with his opinions and often had no initial interest in the subject, I found myself quite enjoying listening to him and even asked some questions, which were just as likely to be met with a dismissive aside as an enthusiastic explanation.

After some time of this, I found myself thinking back to our initial "interview" and events immediately preceding our departure. It was a period of quiet, and I suddenly determined to ask what had, at the time, bothered me -though only slightly. "Why did you say they would be glad to be rid of you?"

There was an uncharacteristically long silence and I realized, with some small surprise of my own, that I had surprised him.

"I can see how some people would find you, ah... abrasive," I continued, trying to be tactful, "and CS is usually eager to get new ships out and working, but I don't have a clue why they would want to, as you said, get rid of you."

"Indeed," said Sherlock in his usual dry tone. "I cannot fault _you_ for lacking sufficient data, at least. To answer your question: you were not, by far, the first brawn candidate I was sent - rather more like the fourteenth."

" _Fourteen?!_ " I exclaimed.

"Most were not even worth the time of conducting what my supervisor would consider a proper interview," he continued as though I hadn't said anything, a clear note of disdain on the word _supervisor_. "I had already been warned that, should I not choose a brawn _soon_ , I would be sent out without one instead of being allowed to take up a precious parking space. Which was a less mind-achingly boring prospect than spending months with any of those supposed psychological matches, but would still have been _inestimably_ boring."

"I see," I managed to squeeze into the brief pause.

"You at least were unlikely to be aggravating as a partner, and I admit to being pleasantly surprised in your role as a conversational partner."

"Really?" I hadn't thought my contributions to any of the so-called conversations were especially notable, but I was pleased. "You're interesting to talk to, yourself."

"Hmm, thank you." I felt as though there was more to his response than was immediately obvious, but he didn't give me time to consider it further. "By the by, we are going to make a slight detour up ahead. I am sure it won't take long."

"A detour? What for?"

"The Perlaski Five mining station is sending out an emergency distress call; I believe we are sufficiently 'in the area' to respond without unduly vexing our 'superiors'."

I frowned thoughtfully, then went over to the command console and brought up a map of the sector. I had travelled the area before with my previous partner and, if memory served, _in the area_ was generous at best. And as I scanned the map, I quickly realized that my memory was correct.

"Holmes, Perlaski Five isn't on our route at all."

"It is a mere three days travel from our current location with only a moderate increase in speed--"

"In the absolute wrong direction!"

"--and there are no ships nearer that ourselves," he continued without so much as a pause. "Besides, it is coded a medical issue; I am sure they would appreciate your experience and expertise."

"If I could remind you that I am not, in fact, a doctor," I retorted, more acidly than I intended. Sherlock's blithe disregard for my situation - for _our_ situation, in point of fact - stung more sharply than I had reason to expect. "I have no real medical expertise. We should contact another--"

"Nonsense," he tutted. "By the time another ship arrives it may be too late. I have already informed CenCom of our regrettable but inavoidable detour, besides, and they have offered no complaints."

I did not for a moment believe either of those adjectives. He sounded entirely too pleased with himself for _regrettable_ , and as for whether it was avoidable or not, I had my own thoughts. There was little point bringing them up after the fact, however.

"Don't you think we should have discussed this _before_ you contacted CenCom?"

"It would have led us to the same conclusion, so I thought it more efficient to simply skip the formalities."

I was thoroughly annoyed with Sherlock by that point - annoyed, and beginning to understand why someone might want to be rid of him from their launch pad.

"It is not a formality to discuss major changes of plan with your partner, Sherlock--"

"Holmes."

" _Sherlock_ ," I repeated, pointedly. "This detour of yours will not only cost us no less than a week, possibly resulting in a loss of payment for delivery, but as you pointed out it is a _medical_ emergency. I doubt we have the supplies or capabilities to handle it. Furthermore, I don't appreciated being volunteered for a task without at least being asked first. You may consider it a formality," I added, "but _I_ consider it common decency."

There was a long silence - long enough that I began to wonder if he was going to reply at all.

"You are correct," he said, finally, with an uncharacteristically neutral tone. "I apologise."


	4. The game's etc.

We approached the mining station of Perlaski Five just over three days later; three days which I still resented wasting, though I couldn't say if I was more annoyed that he had assumed I would agree to make the emergency detour... or that his assumption had been correct. I wouldn't have thought twice before agreeing to respond. It _was_ an emergency and we were the nearest available ship, after all. But no one could blame me for objecting to the ship's high-handed manner about it, apology or no.

The station orbited a red dwarf star, on the far side of a thick asteroid belt; it was an asteroid mining station, of course. A planetary mining operation would have their base on the surface rather than an orbiting station. There were no habitable planets in the system at all, meaning the station had to hold all the personnel and facilities that the mining employees required.

Such systems were not the most common, due to the greater risk and upkeep requirements, and were visited almost entirely by cargo ships and the occasional CS pair.

"I have opened a channel to the station," Sherlock informed me in a bored tone. Any enthusiasm he'd initially had when volunteering us for the emergency response had dissipated over the few days since, which was only furthering my annoyance about it.

"Patch it through, please." I was already sitting at the command console, our having only just recently dropped from hyperspace, so I was in an excellent position to listen in on the communications with the station. This time, I was determined he wouldn't be making any decisions for us without my input.

"It is just standard protocols so far, nothing of interest, but I will do so as soon--" He broke off abruptly. "Hmm. Interesting."

"What is it?"

"The emergency beacon is no longer up."

"What!" I exclaimed, a sinking feeling overcoming me. "I hope we weren't too late."

"It can't be helped." If Sherlock had sounded any more bored, he would have been yawning. "I travelled as quickly as I could. Ah, here is your communication, as you requested."

A woman's voice came over the comm. "This is the Perlaski Five station manager. I am very sorry to have wasted your time, JS-983, but we are no longer in need of medical assistance."

"What happened? What was the emergency?" I leaned towards the console, worried for the mysterious victim's - or victims' - health and safety.

"Well..." She sounded apologetic and a bit embarrassed. "I'm afraid he has died, yes, but there was little that could've been done. A miner fell ill and it resembled a recent medical advisory, but the cause has since been identified as accidental."

"...Oh." I felt oddly disappointed by this, despite it effectively proving my earlier statement to Sherlock. I was not a doctor; there really was nothing I could have done to help.

"Might I inquire as to the nature of the accident?" Sherlock had either undergone a remarkable reversal of interest levels or was an excellent actor. He sounded genuinely interested - even sympathetic.

I was glad the ship-to-station channel was audio only, as I couldn't help raising my eyebrows incredulously at him. He flashed a photo of a raspberry at me on one of the screens, which I puzzled over for a moment.

"Of course. Mr. Trajan collapsed in a seizure a few hours after boarding the station, and based on the recent advisory our medical team took what they felt to be the safest course of action, quarantining him while trying to stabilize the seizures. Turns out he'd negected his ship's maintenance and the cabin pressuriser was malfunctioning. By the time they realized it was just DCS - though a severe case - it was too late for our medical team to save him."

"Hmm." Sherlock seemed entirely focused on the conversation, but it was at this point that the visual pun he had made struck me. I nearly laughed aloud, managing to smother it into a brief coughing fit, muffled and directed away from the mic. I was mortified to be caught laughing while a man's death was being discussed and shot Sherlock another glare.

"Well, we do need to send a report back," he continued, disregarding me entirely; "would it be too terribly inconvenient if we were to dock and my partner to do his own examination? It would save us both on the paperwork for the emergency call."

I sat up abruptly to object, jolted away from both amusement and embarrassment, but not quickly enough to intervene.

"Since you're here, might as well," the station manager agreed easily. "I'll have the docking approval sent straightaway."

"Thank you, ma'am." Sherlock paused for the briefest of moments. "There, the console communication is off. This may prove to be interesting after all." He sounded, of all things, _pleased_.

"Haven't we wasted enough time without you trying to thoroughly embarrass me?" I grumbled.

"Nonsense." He dismissed my objection casually. "But did you not think it strange?"

I had no idea what Sherlock was getting at whatsoever. "Think what strange?"

"No? Pity. Well, once we dock and you board, we can look into the matter."

"Look into what matter?"

"The station master suspects nothing, of course," he continued blithely. "I am sure she is too relieved to have avoided this supposed medical advisory."

"Sher-- Holmes! _What_ are you talking about?"

"There is no recent medical advisory for this area, Watson." He sounded even more pleased, if possible. "I have even scanned all medical advisories in Federation records from the past year - not a single one addresses a communicable disease where a primary symptom is seizures."

"You mean she was lying?"

"Not at all. Everything she told us was the truth - to the best of _her_ knowledge."

"But then why didn't you tell her?"

"And alert the murderer to our suspicions?"

"The... _what_?!" I exclaimed. "You can't-- you're not serious."

"On the contrary, Watson, I have never been more serious. This man's death was no accident, and I fully intend to apprehend the criminal behind it."

"...Yes, of course you do." I put my head in my hands, wondering why I couldn't have gotten a _normal_ sort of partner - the sort more interested in buying out their contract than solving mysteries.


	5. In Which There Is A Dead Body

"Examining the body is merely a pretext to dock, of course," Sherlock informed me as he docked to the station. "I will need to examine the victim's ship; if it's closed, come up with some excuse to go inside."

"I'll still need to examine the body," I grumbled. "Pretext or not."

"Yes, of course, just get me access to the mining ship beforehand. Then you can take as long as you like with the examination. And the docking process is complete; someone will-- aha, yes, your greeting party is already arriving. Tell them I need to document the condition of the man's ship, for the paperwork."

I sighed, gathering my patience, and headed towards the lift.

The so-called greeting party consisted of two people: the station manager herself and what appeared to be one of the senior medical personnel.

"I am really sorry about all this," said the former, holding out a hand. "I hope you didn't have to go too far out of the way."

"It's no problem for us, really." I shook her hand; she had a firm, friendly grip. "John Watson."

"Stella Dubois. And this is Dr. Leon Hall; he was in charge of Trajan's medical case."

I shook his hand as well and nodded at them both. "Before we go to do the examination, would you mind opening Trajan's ship for my partner?"

"His ship?" The station manager frowned. "What for?"

"You did say that was the cause of death, yes? It'll make things simpler if we can just verify that ourselves before we go."

"Oh! Yes, of course." She nodded. "I'll have the access codes sent right over. No one's been inside except a maintenance crew worker to check the pressuriser."

"Thank you, you're being very accommodating. We really appreciate it."

"It's our fault you came all this way for nothing, after all. Leon'll lead you to the mortuary - we were going to dispose of the body today, but you arrived first. Lucky you did; I can only imagine the paperwork we'd have to do if you got here after the fact."

"If you don't mind, ma'am," Dr. Hall interrupted politely, "I'll take Mr. Watson to see the body?"

"Yes, right, and I'll go give your partner access. Excuse me."

"This way, Mr. Watson," Dr. Hall said as the station manager hurried off.

The station's doctor was not nearly as inclined to conversation as Ms. Dubois had been, and the short walk to the mortuary gave me ample opportunity to review what Sherlock had told me about the medical advisory. Even if this whole examination was "merely a pretext" (or maybe because), I was determined to make some use of it.

The mortuary, I observed once we arrived, was small, meticulously clean, and current occupied by a single, clearly deceased body which I presumed to be the late Mr. Trajan.

"Here he is, Mr. Watson." Dr. Hall waved me towards the table with the body. "There are gloves to your left."

I nodded and picked up a pair of disposable gloves, pulling them on as I glanced over the body in an initial visual examination. I had hoped there might be something the doctors here had missed, but that hope quickly drifted away into nothing. As I might have expected from the orderly layout and meticulous cleanliness of the examination area, the examining doctor - presumably Dr. Hall - appeared to have done a thoroughly professional job on his autopsy.

Not to be put off, however, I struck up a conversation as I began the examination itself. "The emergency beacon was set due to a medical alert, I was told?"

"Yes," was all of Dr. Hall's response.

I paused and glanced up at him. "What was the alert for, if you don't mind my asking?"

"You should be able to access it on your own computers."

I just barely remembered in time that Sherlock wanted to keep the false alert secret for now, and hastily scrambled for a response other than the fact I _couldn't_ actually access it myself.

"Ah, of course... but I can't access the computers here." I looked apologetic.

Dr. Hall hmmed at me before taking out a tablet with a look of resignation. A few moments and gestures later, he finally responded.

"The primary symptoms listed are joint pain, severe headache and nausea, with possibility of high fevers. More advanced cases could involve delirium, temporary blindness, or seizures, The illness is transferred by contact, potentially fatal and has no known cure as of yet. Any cases are to be reported to MedCen immediately." He thumbed off the screen and looked back at me. "You can see the source of confusion."

"Yes, of course." I nodded thoughtfully. The symptoms were almost perfectly coincidental with severe DCS - enough so that with the knowledge of the alert being fraudulent and Sherlock's suspicions of murder, it seemed as though the alert was intentionally designed to mask it. I finished my examination in silence, thinking deeply. Dr. Hall had seemed reluctant to share the alert information; perhaps there were holes he was worried I would find? He was in a perfect position to create a fake medical alert, and to make sure the quarantine was instituted.

But _why_? What possible motive would a doctor have for killing a miner?

"Everything seems in order," I finally said, pulling off my gloves. "I'll confirm your cause of death in the paperwork."

"Thank you, Mr. Watson."

I held out a hand, suppressing my suspicions with a smile. "Thank you for being so cooperative."

"Of course." Dr. Hall shook my hand, without an answering smile of his own. "Can you find your way back to the dock?"

"Yes, of course."

"Then if you'll excuse me; I don't mean to be rude, but I have a lot to do." And with no further ceremony, I was ushered back into the passage.

It took a moment for me to reorient myself, but the way to the docking bay was quite clearly marked and I began making my way back. The entire suspicion of murder was laughably ridiculous, to be frank... or it should have been. For some reason, on no greater basis than a fake medical alert and the conviction of a brainship, I was giving it serious consideration.


	6. In Which Watson's Hypothesis Is Summarily Shot Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was so long since I last had a chance to work on this, I had to re-plot the whole crime, haha... ha.... Well, let's keep going.

I made my way back to Holmes, organizing my own thoughts on the matter as I rode the lift from the airlock. Murder or not, the doctor was most definitely suspicious. His unwillingness to share the fraudulent medical alert information, his abrupt manner when showing me out, even the fact that the senior medical officer had handled the case. But my problem was, there was no apparent motive for a murder or even a forged medical alert. Perhaps Holmes had been able to find something on the dead man's ship.

"You certainly took your time," was my partner's acerbic greeting as I stepped onto the bridge. "Bring an earpiece next time."

"I do have my commlink." I tapped it with a finger; it was pinned to my shirt, as it usually was.

"Which allows everyone in the vicinity to hear every word, of course. Your investigation of the corpse was supposedly the more important of our two tasks; it would be suspicious if I were to insist you hurry it up."

I did not appreciate being reminded that my partner considered my own investigations a mere decoy - even if such investigations had been explicitly intended by him as such from the beginning. I was not deterred, however; if he was going to insist on treating this as some sort of murder investigation, I wasn't going to sit back and let him feed his ego by "solving" it on his own, or I had a suspicion I would never hear the end of it.

"Dr. Hall--"

"The doctor is not the culprit," Holmes interrupted, putting unnecessarily excessive exasperation into his voice. "Obviously."

I stared, taken aback, until the surprise was overtaken by anger. " _Obviously_?! Look, I've been playing along with your game--"

"This is not a _game_ , Watson."

"Your _game_ ," I repeated, not to be dissuaded. "Dr. Hall could easily have forged the medical alert, having access to not only all of the medical system computers but also the knowledge and training required to use the correct terminology. Additionally, he handled the entire case personally, which is highly unusual for a doctor of his position. Normally, once it was realized that the death was caused by something other than the unknown illness, the files and processing would have been turned over to a junior doctor or even a medical assistant. And, he has sufficient security clearance to get into any additionally necessary systems to implement the hoax. Assuming that you're right and this whole affair is some sort of nefarious scheme intended to kill an unremarkable miner, I fail to see how his lack of involvement is _obvious_."

There was a brief silence, which I chose to take as impressed surprised. "You really did put some thought into that, after all." It was a backhanded compliment, but considering the source, likely the best I would ever get. Whatever small comfort I could take from that, at least. "But not quite enough. Someone with even the most basic of transmission hijacking skills could easily copy the terminology and format, then send the alert to the station with a forged signature. This is a small mining station, so deaths are uncommon enough each would typically be handled by the highest level doctor on staff; the lower doctors and aides, if they exist at all, would be tasked with lesser ailments and injuries. As high as his clearance may be, he would still have had to hack through Trajan's own security. Most critically, however, is the simple lack of anything resembling a motive."

"I did realize that myself," I admitted, reluctantly. "I had hoped you found additional information about that on your own investigation."

"Of course I did. I found exactly what I was looking for."

"What? Why didn't you-- what did you find?"

"I did say you should have worn an earpiece."

"Yes, but what did you _find_?"

"The motive."

I sighed, searching for patience. Of course he was being cryptic; he _had_ to model his behavior on that ancient fictional detective, down to searching for murder cases. "What is the motive, then?"

"Depressingly mundane, despite the cleverness of the murder's execution. I had hoped it would present a more interesting ultimate solution."

"Yes, but what _is_ it?"

"Theft; documents, I believe." He sounded bored. "Records of one of Mr. Trajan's mining claims."

"Why on earth would anyone steal those?"

"The claim hasn't been registered yet. The thief - murderer, I suppose - could use the claim as their own."

"I... see." It sounded plausible enough, though still not worth such an elaborate murder. "And the culprit?"

"Never mind about the culprit. We--"

"Oh for pete's sake, Sherlock!" I slammed a hand down on the console. "You can't drag us literal _days_ off course on some murder hunt for your own amusement and then just abandon it like that! Did you finally realized I was right the whole time and it really was an accident?"

"Not at all." He sounded unperturbed by my outburst. "As I was about to say; we only need to wait and the culprit will reveal themselves."


	7. In Which There Is A Very Loud Alarm

Holmes had refused to explain himself further, which I had to admit surprised me not in the least. If I had learned one thing about the nineteenth century fictional detective, it was that he preferred to keep all his cards tucked away in his metaphorical sleeve until he had the criminal pinned down, culminating in a dramatic reveal of the plan and how he, Sherlock, had cleverly deduced it all and planted himself in precisely the right part of it to capture the criminal in the act. It made for excellent narrative suspense, but when forced to _live_ with the practice in reality, it rapidly lost its charm in exchange for exasperation. I was beginning to understand why my own fictional counterpart grew annoyed at Holmes so frequently.

"If you won't tell me how you know this supposed murderer will reveal themselves," I tried for the umpteenth time, "do you at least have some notion of _when_?"

"For the last time, Watson, no." Holmes sounded exasperated, which considering the entire situation was _his_ fault felt decidedly unwarranted. "Why don't you go take a nap, or some other pastime that results in you ceasing conversation?"

"And risk this mysterious murderer magically appearing out of thing air while I sleep? Thank you, but no."

"Then would you at least do me the favor of remaining quiet?"

If the fine for switching to another ship wasn't so astronomically high - and my chances of finding one so abysmally low - I would have messaged CenCom right then requesting a reassignment. As it was, I decided to take the path of least resistance and, ignoring my partner, opened another Sherlock Holmes story.

The original Holmes and Watson had just discovered the elusive Palmer tire tracks in the moor when my attention was thrown abruptly back to the present by a loud, blaring alarm.

"What's going on? Why--"

"It's the alert for a flare." Holmes - well, Sherlock, the real one - sounded tense and excited, which was an entirely new expression for him, as far as I knew. "Put that rubbish down and go down to the dock hall."

"What? Why?" I put it down anyway, despite my protests; it wasn't as though I could focus on reading with that alarm going off. Although it should have occurred to me to question why it was sounding _inside the ship_ , since it was a station alarm.

"I told you the murderer would reveal themselves; this is what they were waiting for. Get something to defend yourself with and go, they'll try to get into Trajan's ship."

I stared blankly for a second, then hastily scrambled to my feet and to the lift, taking a brief detour only to grab a pistol on my way.

"Don't be conspicuous," my partner warned as the lift descended. "You want them to think they're safe long enough to catch them trying to break into the ship."

"How do you know it'll happen now? For that matter, what is the alarm? It can't be some kind of murderer alarm."

"Don't be ridiculous. It's a flare alert; we only have moments before it fully hits the station."

I stepped out of the lift into the dock area and forced myself not to look immediately towards Trajan's ship. Don't look conspicuous, Holmes said. So far, I could pass my behavior off as reacting to what very clearly sounded like an emergency alarm.

"Flare alert?"

"Yes."

I waited a moment for further explanation, venturing a little further away from the ship, before I realized there was no further explanation forthcoming. "What is a flare alert?"

"An alert that there is going to be a solar flare colliding with the station, obviously."

"But how--"

"Never mind that, we haven't got the time, who else is out there with you?"

The only other ships docked there at the moment, besides us, were Trajan's ship and another similar ship that most likely also belonged to a miner (though its pilot and owner was most likely still alive). There was a maintenance worker near the unknown ship, doing some kind of electrical repairs, "Just maintenance."

"One person?"

"Yes."

"That's them. Be prepared to intercept."

"What? How do you--"

"No _real_ maintenance worker would be in the docking bay right before a flare strikes. It's the least protected area of the entire station."

It was in the middle of Holmes' brief explanation that the erstwhile maintenance worker stood and looked around. Despite my doubts about the veracity of the entire crime theory, I hastily made for a nearby storage crate and ducked behind it. Fortunately the alarm continued blaring loudly or the sound of my footsteps on the floor would have been a dead giveaway. I waited in hiding for one, two seconds, then cautiously peered around a corner of the box.

The suspect was heading straight for Trajan's ship.


	8. It's All Fun And Games Until Somebody Loses A Hand

_Be prepared to intercept._

Holmes' words ran through my mind and I sprinted across the docking bay, aiming to reach the ship before the worker did. I tried not to think too hard about what would happen if they were, in fact, a genuine maintenance worker and the trouble I would be in if I were to assault a station employee. Those fears faded somewhat as she spotted me and immediately took off at a sprint of her own.

They vanished completely as she swung a wrench at my head.

I ducked, skidding to a stop, and only remembering as she darted past me that I was attempting to _prevent_ exactly that. I lunged, cursing inwardly, and managed to grab the back of her heel - not well, but enough to make her stumble. She turned and lashed her other foot out as I rolled out of the way and back to my feet.

"Please just come quietly," I called out over the still-blaring alarm. "This is all--"

She laughed and flung the wrench at my head, forcing me to duck out of the way again. As I straightened, she pulled out what appeared to be some sort of cutter - probably for the doors - and started backing towards Trajan's ship. "Stay back," she yelled over the alarm, "or I'll kill you."

I didn't really believe she would do it. Even if she had killed Trajan, plotting a death by malfunction, as Holmes had theorized, was distant and removed; killing another human being face to face was another matter entirely. On the other hand, the tool in her hands was designed to cut through solid steel. I could too easily imagine what it could do to a human body.

I ran, aiming to get past her and reach the mining ship door first. She sidestepped to block me - and the floor shuddered, knocking us both off balance and floating upwards as the gravity abruptly failed.

My opponent cursed as the lights flickered and we both struggled to stabilize ourselves, then she flung an arm out to send her flying towards Trajan's ship. But she wasn't the only one with zero-grav experience - or with unreliable-gravity experience, which wound up serving me better. I had righted myself and kept near the floor, so when the gravity returned - as abruptly as it had vanished - I landed on my feet with relative ease. She, however, had focused instead on speed towards her target, and crashed to the floor before skidding several feet.

The solar flare must have been hitting the station right then; it was the only explanation for systems to be going haywire in such a manner. I could only hope that the lights and gravity would be the worst of it, and none of the other local life support systems would go off.

I took advantage of the moment to draw my gun and aim it at her before advancing. "Put down your weapon," I called over the alarm.

She snarled at me, then scrambled to her feet.

I fired as she turned on the cutter with a crackle, once in front of her feet as a warning, and tried not to wince as the bullet ricocheted. The docking bay of a station was not the safest place to be shooting a firearm. "I said, put down--"

She didn't give me a chance to repeat myself, lunging at me with the humming door cutter. I fired again, the bullet hitting her this time in the shoulder but barely slowing her at all, then was forced to take evasive action to avoid having my arm sliced off. A thought came into my head as I fired again and missed, that at least the wound would be cauterized closed. Like those laser swords from those old pre-space scifi movies. Avoiding death by blood loss was a miniscule consolation in the face of losing a limb.

An ordinary bullet, however, provided no such convenient cauterization, and the blood was already beginning to soak through her shirt.

She lunged and swung at me again - and once again, the gravity failed, and with it went the lights. I heard her curse as the glow of the cutter swung wildly and careened off to the side before I was dragged down again by the return of gravity, hitting the floor hard as I heard screaming.

I scrambled to my feet in the dark, looking around for the glow of the tool as the screaming continued. I managed to spot it at the same moment the lights came back again and found myself staring at a disembodied hand, lying near the humming tool embedded into the floor.

The woman I'd been fighting lay several feet away from it, writhing on the ground as her remaining hand clutched her arm. The blood from the bullet wound was smeared across the floor beneath her.

I felt sick. This was supposed to be a routine courier service job; there wasn't supposed to be any more of this, not for me.

The alarm went silent as I walked over to her, and Sherlock's voice spoke over my commlink. Calm and matter of fact as always, as though there wasn't a bloodied woman screaming in agony on the floor.

"I presume from the sound of things that you successfully foiled the murderer's breaking and entry."

"She cut her hand off," I replied tersely. "After I shot her."

There was an unusually long silence before he replied. "The loss of one's hand was an ancient punishment for theft, so I suppose it is fitting to the situation."

"You had damn well better be right about all this," I muttered, holstering the gun in my waistband. "Or you made me shoot an innocent woman."

"I did not _make_ you do anything, Watson, but no matter. Of course I'm right. I will contact the station manager immediately."

"You do that." I crouched down and started tending to the woman's bullet wound. There wasn't anything I could do about her hand, but I was determined to at least deal with the injury I'd caused. Even if she _was_ the murderer Holmes thought.


	9. In Which Watson Despairs Of His Lot

By the time station security arrived, I had removed the bullet, staunched the bleeding, and wrapped her shoulder as best as I could with the first-aid tools I kept on hand. Fortunately the woman passed out shortly after I began tending to her, which made the entire process much easier.

Security was clearly suspicious of the whole situation; the two of them flanked us and one asked me to stand and move away from the victim. I complied, resisting the urge to wipe the blood off my hands onto my pants; I had already done for her what I could.

"What is going on here?!" The station manager ran into the dockyard, distressed and out of breath. "Your ship claims that you've apprehended a _murderer_! There have been no murders on my station!"

"My partner believes that Trajan's death was not accidental, but homicide."

"Nonsense!" Ms. Dubois saw the woman lying on the floor and paled, quickly glancing away again. "If anyone has committed murder here, it's _you,_ and I--"

"I have reported the details of the case to CenCom," Holmes interrupted via my communicator. "The nearest patrol ship will be routed to the station to investigate the case. And they wish to speak with you, Station Manager Dubois, so I would suggest you return to your office and receive their call."

The manager sputtered, but the presence of the bloodied and unconscious woman on the bay floor made her far more reluctant to remain than she may have been otherwise. "I-- Very well, but I expect you two to remain for questioning or I will send the police after you, do you hear?"

"Of course," I assured her before my partner could say anything to the contrary. "I'm sure they want to hear from us in person."

"Yes... yes, of course." She turned and hurried off, muttering to herself about how she wished they'd never put up the distress beacon in the first place.

I had to admit I agreed with the sentiment. Humoring Holmes had either gotten us into a mountain of trouble, caught us a murderer, or both - the last of which I personally felt was most likely. If he'd been right about this whole thing, we'd likely get a nod of thanks from law enforcement and a fine from our company. Considering how deeply in debt a brainship started out and how little CS wanted them to successfully pay said debt off, that was a considerable risk.

And now here I was, flanked by a pair of security officers and watching a woman lay bleeding slowly on the floor.

The doctor arrived before the situation began to feel too much more awkward and I inclined my head to him before excusing myself. They wouldn't need me to give any further information on her injuries; they were self-evident enough.

One of the security officers followed me - to make sure I didn't shoot anyone else, perhaps - until I reached the ship lift, where she stationed herself as I went up.

I would have felt humiliated about being treated like a criminal if I weren't already feeling dejected. My life was doomed to be haunted by misfortune, it seemed.

"I do hope the patrol ship arrives quickly," Holmes said, his acerbic tone the first thing to greet me as I exited the lift. "We are already going to be late for our shipment."

I stared at the column, my mouth agape in disbelief. "Yes, Holmes," and I pride myself that I kept my voice remarkably level, "we are already going to be late. After _you_ insisted on this detour."

"It was an emergency distress signal," he pointed out, dismissing my objection. "You were just as eager to aid them as I."

"And even more eager to leave again once it discovered there _was no emergency_." I stalked over to the command chair and flung myself into it. "This is our first job, Holmes, and we've already ruined it by being several days behind - not to mention potentially having earned a hefty fine _and_  a criminal record."

"Oh come now," he tutted, "you can't blame yourself too much. After all, she was attempting to take _your_  life, and all you did was shoot her in the-- well, it can't have been fatal, judging from Dr. Hall arriving on the scene to take over in her care, rather than taking her to the mortuary for an autopsy."

"No," I admitted reluctantly, "it wasn't fatal. But I still shot her, which as you may know is a crime."

"You shot a hardened criminal who was attempting to kill you with a steel-cutting torch. You can hardly be blamed or feel guilty for defending yourself in such a situation."

"I can feel however the-- wait." I sat up abruptly. "How on earth did you know that? You couldn't possibly have _seen_ it, not from over here."

"It is a trivial deduction, my dear Watson." My partner sounded eminently bored. "The criminal needed to get into Trajan's ship; therefore, they needed some means of getting through the door. The most convenient tool for doing so would be one for cutting through hardened metal. And of course the perfect cover for carrying such a tool around is to be a mechanic, tending to the maintenance of the ships docked on the station."

"It all seems so simple after you explain it," I muttered. "How come I never realize it myself beforehand?"

"You see, but you do not observe," he replied.

The line was, of course, a quote from his fictional namesake, and as he had apparently been tracking my reading habits, he clearly knew I was well aware of that fact. And, I presumed, attempting to irritate me further.

"I am not rising to your bait." I gave the nearest camera a pointed glare. "You might as well not bother."

A dry chuckle came from the speakers. "A point in your favor, Watson. Doyle's version of you would have done so."

"I suppose we should be thankful he's simply a fictional character then, shouldn't we?"

"Perhaps we should."


End file.
